Before the History: Are You Worthy?
by The Sterling Dragon
Summary: We all know that Norway knows how to do magic, that much is a given. But what made him decide to learn it in the first place? No parings!


This was a little one shot from a scene that popped into my head whilst RP-ing ^^

As always, I can dream, but I don't own Hetalia… T_T

By the way:

Scandia= Scandinavia (A reviewer told me that it Scandinavia used to be called Scandia ._.' I've been making the same mistake for forever now! If it's wrong please tell me! XD)  
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Scandia paced in front of his sons the grassy layer creating the floor of the meadow cushioning his footfalls and muffling them against hard packed, battle scarred earth of their sparring field of choice. Each of them: Denmark, Sweden, and Norway, held a broad sword in a semi-relaxed stance. They were preparing, as they had for most of the year, to go on their first raid on a village further north, the fall of Rome having plunged to word into a rather interesting state where brother turned upon brother and fought to the death. Their father had been teaching them to prepare them for their rite of passage. What was the rite of passage? Fight in a raid and not die of course!

Though today would be the real test. Today the three brothers would face their father and show him their skills as he deemed whether or not they were prepared to go on and fight. If they were ready to feel the rush of adrenaline as they fought, sickening satisfaction as their enemies fell before them. If they were worthy.

Denmark was first being the eldest of the three. Conceited smirk on the adolescent's face as he squared off against his father. To any on looker it would seem as though a mirror had come alive and decided to do battle against itself. It seemed to give even Sweden a headache. And that was saying something seeing as he had to deal with practically double the amount of Denmark's personality seeing as he was almost the exact copy of his father. However Norway didn't find their likeness to one another to be disconcerting, but rather the seemingly flawless foot work that his brother executed as he struck, blocked, and parried.

Eventually, seemingly not long after the test began it ended for Denmark. Scandia signaled for him to back down and nodded to his son signaling that he had passed the test. Of course one could almost imagine the look on Denmark's face. The Danish teen backed away to go and rest over in the shade towards the edge of the small meadow, not really giving a care to the world that he was covered in dirt and grime, but rather he cared only that he'd passed and had now graduated to lopping unsuspecting people's head's off with a sharp inanimate object for real. How rude…

Norway narrowed his eyes. That meant that Sweden was next. This was good. That meant that Scandia would be somewhat exhausted when it was his turn, which boosted his chances in winning greatly. And seeing his father's face he was getting a run for his money against his second son's strength. The Ancient was having to use both of his hands on his battle axe every so often, which was saying a lot seeing as this was Scandia we're talking about here, and that aforementioned Ancient is rather prideful. Though the fight didn't last as long as the shorter Nordic had originally anticipated and Sweden was soon being pestered by Denmark off to the side… though Denmark was soon knocked out cold, and not from exhaustion either…

The adolescent found himself standing before his father not remembering walking towards him in the fist place. The arctic fury of his father's axe bit into Norway's broadsword as he blocked, stepping backwards slightly to keep his balance. Scandia, of course, being the well-trained fighter that he was, was able to pick up on this and instinctively pushed Norway back another step.

It was nearly too late for Norway when he finally realized, to his masked horror, that he had made it to the tree line and was still fighting. That was when the last blow came. Norway attempted to block but it was much stronger than he'd anticipated and the axe buried itself in his upper arm. The burning sensation of his skin being torn was soon overpowered by the disgusting scent of fresh, warm, syrup-like blood. The blond haired nation stumbled backwards as he went into shock at the impact of the blade, tripping on a root placed oh so conveniently by his foot. Norway suddenly found everything had become taller as the adolescent slumped down against a tree, hitting his head slightly against the rough, bark-covered trunk.

Norway looked up at his father with wide eyes as Scandia stood towering over the smaller, younger nation, disappointment evident in his clear eyes. The younger blond was leaning up against a tree deep gouge in his arm, blood running in small rivulets down his arm to coat the broad sword that was much too large for his slight frame. The Norwegian looked down at his stained left arm not really able to feel the dead weight of the weapon or the tingling sensation in his fingers as they went numb under the awkward angle his arm was bent in. Not a doubt in his mind that he wouldn't be using his arm for a while Norway turned his dull eyes back to his father's barely recognizing Denmark and Sweden staring at him from across the field.

Scandia was yelling at him, Norway was sure of it. He just couldn't hear him, too dazed from his unwelcome impact with the tree that he was leaning against for him to understand language quite yet. Sight swimming as his hearing came back in a droning buzzing sound Norway heard words that he'd never wanted to live to hear. "…why are you so weak Norway? You'll be killed as soon as you set foot on the battle field!" His father snapped taking Norway and pulling him to his feet so the nation could lean against the rather coarse bark of the tree that had decided to attack him only moments before. That one word, so carelessly tossed about, was almost enough for the young nation to be physically sick. Weak? Him? Norway had never considered it.

Of course that one injury left the young nation at home as his elder brothers went out on their first raid. His pride hurt almost as much as his arm, a throbbing reminder of his blunder. Norway stared jealously at the door to the entrance of his self-proclaimed prison, said arm bandaged, full use having been restored thanks to the help of this strange thing called 'magic.' Narrowing his cold eyes at the door Norway made his choice.

He was going to learn magic.

That way he'd be deemed as worthy…


End file.
